A Necessary Husband

by Debra Mullins

  Lucinda's words came back to him. Didn't it ever occur to you that he was just as hurt as you were when your father died? Your father was his son. How do you think that made him feel, to know his actions had precipitated the death of his child?

  Garrett had no children, but he had Meg, who had at times felt more like his daughter than his sister. How would he feel if he did something that resulted in Meg's death?

  The pain and grief would rival all the fires of hell.

  "So you have come to your senses?" his grandfather challenged. "You will allow Margaret to stay?"

  Once he would have taken umbrage at the old man's querulous tone, but now he saw the duke's aggression for what it was: fear.

  "Meg is a grown woman," he said mildly. "She will make her own decisions."

  Hope flared in the duke's eyes. "And what of you, boy? Will you stay as well?"

  "I can't." His gaze strayed to Lucinda.

  "I see."

  "I have a business to run," Garrett continued, looking away as Lucinda slipped out onto the terrace on Sir James's arm. He met the duke's gaze. "I don't expect you to understand, but there are people depending on me for their livelihood. I have already been away too long."

  The duke snorted. "No one would understand better, boy. I have hundreds of people depending on me for the very same thing." He glanced across the room. "Blast it. Agatha's gone off again. I'd best wake her."

  The old man set off across the room, leaving Garrett stunned by the fact that the two of them were not so very different after all.

  * * *

  The moon shone full and bright, illuminating the small garden with a sweeping shaft of cool light. Lucinda went to the railing and stared down at the bushes and flowers and the marble statues that glowed in the eerie moonlit night.

  She had a feeling she knew why Sir James had sought this moment of privacy with her, and for the first time, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He took her hand, drawing her gaze to his face. "Dearest Lucinda—"

  "Sir James—" she began in the same moment.

  "No, Lucinda, please let me get this out." He took a deep breath. "It's been many years since I offered for a woman, and I'm a bit out of practice."

  Lucinda raised one trembling hand to her bosom. "Sweet Lord," she whispered, uncertain if she was excited or terrified.

  "Lucinda, I have always admired you," Sir James continued. "Your father was my dear friend, and I have watched you grow from a sweet child into a beautiful woman. In that time I have come to care for you a great deal, and I would be honored if you would consent to be my wife."

  As he smiled down at her, his brown eyes warm and kind, emotion clogged her throat.

  "I can see you are uncertain," Sir James said, when she did not respond. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand, silencing her. "Don't say anything. Think about my proposal, and I shall return on Thursday for your answer."

  "Thank you," she said quietly. "I would like time to consider your kind offer."

  "May I escort you back inside?" he asked, gallantly proffering his arm.

  "Actually, I would like to be alone for a few moments," she said, apology in her voice. "To think."

  "Of course." He raised her hand to his lips. "Perhaps you might save me a waltz later."

  She gave him a weak smile. "Perhaps."

  He did not press her further. He sketched a brief bow and retreated into the ballroom, a smile on his lips.

  Lucinda watched him leave, confusion tangling her thoughts. At last she had what she had always wanted...but she wasn't sure she wanted it anymore.

  She had never expected to have a choice.

  The beauty of the garden beckoned her, and she walked down the curving stone steps into the tiny patch of greenery that served as the garden. She sank down on a stone bench, her emotions churning.

  She stood at a crossroads. She could walk one path with Sir James at her side and live a life of ease in England as a respected member of the Polite World. Or she could walk the other path with Garrett—become his wife, and go back with him to America. She had no idea what to expect, but with Garrett's love to sustain her, she had no doubt they could weather any storm.

  Both men were wealthy enough to pay off Harry's debts, and both men were more than enough to discourage Malcolm's determined pursuit. But which one should she choose?

  Sir James would treat her with kindness and respect. Years of quiet peace stretched before her as Lucinda Whigby. Should she wed Garrett, she had no doubt that the two of them would continue to engage in heated discussions. No doubt she would constantly feel the desire to fling a vase at his head when he was acting stubborn, but when it was over, she would always be secure in his love.

  Garrett loved her. Sir James was fond of her. There really was no choice at all.

  Garrett was the man she loved, and she would marry him, though it meant possibly leaving England for good. She would miss England, but how bad could America be, if Garrett wanted to return there so badly? And there were things she would not miss here, like the snobbery of En-gland's peerage and the constant fear of scandal. All in all, she might even look forward to going to America.

  "Well, well, well," came a voice that shattered her thoughts and chilled her blood. "Good evening, dear Lucinda."

  Lucinda leaped to her feet as Malcolm stepped out of the shadows of the garden behind her. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her heart thundering in her chest.

  "I was invited to the ball, of course." The moonlight turned his blond hair to silver gilt as he came closer. He wore dark clothing, which was why he had blended into the darkness so well. She refused to retreat a step, though every instinct in her body urged her to do just that.

  "The ball is in the house, Malcolm," she said.

  "What kind of gentleman would I be if I left a lady all alone in a secluded garden?" he purred. "Unlike your suitor, I would never consider leaving you alone, dear Lucinda."

  The words held a casual menace that froze her with its subtle threat. He reached out and stroked his hand down her cheek. A wave of revulsion shook her free of her trance, and she jerked away from him.

  "Keep your hands off me!"

  Quick as a snake, he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her up against him. "Never, Lucinda dear. I have waited too long to get my hands on you."

  She struggled, but he was amazingly strong. "Release me at once, Malcolm!"

  "You are not the pigeon I had hoped to snare tonight, but I will accept fortune's choice."

  She opened her mouth to scream, but he swiftly clamped an arm around her struggling form and closed his other hand around her throat. She cast him a frightened look, barely able to breathe, much less summon help.

  His eyes glittered in the moonlight. "You're mine, Lucinda. At last, you are mine!"

  Black spots edged her vision, and his face began to blur. She struggled to breathe, but she couldn't seem to pull in enough breath. Everything began to fade...

  * * *

  Meg stood frozen in the shadows of the terrace, her dark cloak hiding her from anyone who might be watching.

  Shocked, she watched Malcolm choke Lucinda into unconsciousness and then carry her limp body through the small garden gate and away from the house. She couldn't even shout for help; she couldn't even run for assistance.

  The man she loved had turned into a monster.

  You are not the pigeon I had hoped to snare tonight.

  With fingers gone cold like ice, she crumpled the note he had sent her into a small, tight ball. If not for a trick of fate, she would now be happily riding to Gretna Green in Malcolm's carriage, determined to become his bride.

  What a fool she had been!

  A tear trickled down her cheek, and she swiped it away. She should never have listened to his promises—his lies. She had gone to him when she was angry at Lucinda, had believed him when he told her that Lucinda had been chasing after him for years. Lies, all lies. And then, afraid t
hat Garrett might drag her back to America against her will, she had been only too receptive to Malcolm's suggestion to run away and get married. She had convinced herself that her grandfather would understand.

  Why had she ignored the advice of the people who loved her? Because of her foolishness, Lucinda was now in danger.

  While she stood about, wallowing in self-pity!

  She whirled and raced up the stairs toward the house.

  Garrett would know what to do.

  Chapter 20

  Garrett was doing his best not to watch the terrace doors when Meg appeared. He knew immediately from the look on her face that something was wrong. Heedless of the stares she attracted—what was she doing wearing a cloak?—she hurried over to him, her eyes wide with distress.

  "Lucinda's been taken," she gasped, grabbing his arm.

  Alarm roughened his voice. "Damn that Sir James—"

  "No, not him. It was Malcolm."

  Malcolm. The very man from whom Lucinda had sought to protect Meg. Fury smoldered, then burst into flame. "Tell me what happened."

  The duke came over and interrupted just as she opened her mouth to speak. "What the devil is going on here?" he demanded in a whisper. "Margaret, why are you dressed this way? Everyone is staring!"

  Guilt flooded Meg's face, the same expression she had worn at age three when she had dumped salt into the sugar bowl. Though urgency nipped at his heels, Garrett stepped in and said calmly, "There has been some trouble. Perhaps we should discuss this in private."

  A look at Garrett's set face made Erasmus snap, "Very well—let's adjourn to my study. Agatha can handle things here."

  Moments later, the three of them were alone in the duke's study. Garrett shut the doors behind them, then cut right to the heart of the matter. "Lord Arndale has abducted Lucinda."

  "Good God, are you certain?" the duke exclaimed. He paled and slowly made his way to the chair behind his desk. "That is a very serious accusation."

  "I saw it, Grandfather," Meg interjected. "I was in the garden, and I saw him take her."

  "Perhaps she went willingly," the duke suggested. "She was angling after a husband, after all."

  Meg shook her head, and her voice trembled as she said, "He put his hand over her throat and choked her until she fell unconscious. She might even be... dead."

  "No." Garrett's tone held more certainty than he felt, but he didn't want to think about the alternative. "She's not dead. He would have just left the body if she were dead."

  "He said something about waiting too long to get his hands on her—he sounded like a madman," Meg whispered.

  "What were you doing in the garden?" Erasmus asked. "And for God's sake, why are you wearing a cloak in the middle of your come-out ball?"

  Meg cast her gaze to the floor. "I was supposed to meet him," she admitted in a small voice. "We were going to Scotland to get married."

  "What!" Garrett roared.

  "But why?" the duke rasped, sinking heavily into his desk chair. "Why would you do such a thing?"

  "I thought I was in love," she replied softly. "And I didn't want to go back to America. I thought I could stay here in England if I married Malcolm."

  "Foolish girl," the duke muttered.

  "I wouldn't have forced you, puss," Garrett choked, stunned at his sister's narrow escape. "But Lucinda warned me about Malcolm. She said he was evil, and I would never have let you marry him."

  "She warned me as well," Erasmus said, regret heavy in his voice. "And because I didn't want to limit Margaret's choice of husband and lose her as I did your father, I didn't listen."

  "She tried to warn me, too," Meg said with a sob. "But Malcolm told me Lucinda wanted him for herself, and I believed him. I've been so stupid!"

  "The important thing is to get Lucinda back before Malcolm harms her," Garrett said. "Where could they have gone? The trail grows cold as we stand here."

  "We were going to Gretna Green." Meg took a deep breath in a clear effort to calm herself. "He said he had made arrangements at an inn along the way."

  "There are several decent inns on the road to Scotland," the duke said. "But those grays of his are very distinctive, and if he wanted to move swiftly, using his own prime horseflesh would be his best bet."

  "I'm going after her," Garrett decided. "Give me directions."

  "That's good of you to offer, my boy."

  "To hell with that," Garrett snarled. "I intend to marry Lucinda."

  "Oh." The duke blinked, as if assimilating the information.

  "Oh, Garrett!" Meg cried, clearly delighted.

  "Then you'd best take Knightsbridge with you," his grandfather continued. "He knows the way, and he'll prevent you from killing Arndale."

  "He can try," Garrett growled, heading for the door.

  "Beat him senseless if you want," Erasmus called after him, "but don't kill him. I'll not have my heir flee the country for ridding the world of that vermin."

  "I've been trying to flee this country since I got here, old man," Garrett replied with a snort. "But I will try to do so of my own will and not the Crown's."

  "That's all I can ask," the duke said. "Good luck to you, my boy."

  "It's Arndale who needs the luck." Garrett jerked open the door and went to look for Knightsbridge, simmering rage adding fury to his step.

  Malcolm had taken Lucinda, but the Englishman had not bargained on Garrett's Irish temper or American audacity. Garrett would take her back.

  And Malcolm would pay.

  * * *

  Lucinda slowly recovered her senses. At first she thought she was back in her bedroom at Stanton House, but then she realized that the bed was much harder than what she was used to. It even smelled different. She wasn't at home. She wasn't any place she knew. With a jolt, she came fully awake and sat straight up in bed.

  And immediately wished she hadn't.

  The room swam for an instant, then settled, leaving her with a curious light-headed feeling. She raised one trembling hand to her throat, touching the tender flesh with a wince.

  "Never fear, dear Lucinda. I left no bruises."

  She jerked her head around at that familiar, dreaded drawl, then instantly regretted the action as the room spun again. When it settled, she found herself looking at Malcolm.

  He sat in a nearby armchair, his coat and cravat gone, and his shirt partly unbuttoned. He held a crystal goblet of brandy, and as he swirled it around in the glass, the heavy gold signet ring he wore reflected the light from the nearby fire. His hair glimmered like gold in the flickering of the flames.

  The smile on his face was that of a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

  "Where am I?" she demanded, her voice much stronger than her body felt.

  "At an inn." He sipped the brandy, never taking his eyes from her face. "Don't try to call for help. The innkeeper was very sympathetic to my tale about my reluctant bride."

  "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth," she swore.

  His fingers tightened briefly around the goblet, then relaxed. "Not that I would ever have you, my dear. You are certainly good enough for a mistress, but your bloodline just doesn't measure up for the wife of the Earl of Witting."

  "Your father has not yet died," she reminded him.

  "He lingers still," Malcolm agreed carelessly. "But he is bound to go on to his reward any time now. Then I shall be the earl."

  "Don't you care for your father at all?" Lucinda gasped. "How can you be so cold-blooded?"

  "I'm not cold-blooded," Malcolm said, making a little tsking noise. "In fact, I plan to show you how very hot-blooded I can be, dear Lucinda."

  "I don't want you, Malcolm," she said coldly.

  He laughed. "My dear, I don't care if you do or not." He placed the goblet on a side table and rose, stretching like a tiger in the sun. "I've waited much too long," he said, approaching her.

  "Stay where you are," she commanded, holding up a hand.

  He paused, then laughed. "How fie
rce you sound, my dear. I'll have you purring like a kitten in no time."

  She rolled her eyes. "Malcolm, you sound like the villain of a poorly written play. Didn't you give this any thought? Don't you think someone is going to come after me?"

  "This was just a lucky impulse," he said airily.

  "Then what were you doing in the garden?" The answer came to her when he smiled. "Meg. You were going to meet Meg!"

  "Yes, dear Miss Margaret is quite in love with me. We were going to Gretna Green."

  She was glad that her capture had saved Meg from such a fate, at least. "Won't she miss you?"

  "No, I will just tell her that it was too dangerous to go tonight. That word of our plans might have gotten to the wrong ears." He laughed as he came to stand at the side of the bed. "Who do you think convinced her that you were jealous when you warned her away from me? Really, Lucinda, that was not a very nice thing to do."

  Lucinda stared up at Malcolm, trying to think through the fuzzy-headedness. Meg was safe. Now she had to come up with a way to escape herself. Once she got away, she would marry Garrett and be off to America, far beyond Mal-colm's reach.

  In the meantime, he stood much too close to her, close enough for her to smell the brandy on his breath, and he was half naked. Not a good situation at all! She looked around the room, at any place but him, and noticed her reticule still hanging from her wrist. It was a miracle she had not lost the tiny bag when he had carried her off.

  An idea struck. Now, if she could only make it work...

  Out of concern for the duke, she had taken one of his vials of laudanum and slipped it into her purse in case he had an attack during the ball. If she could somehow get the laudanum out and slip it into Malcolm's brandy, he would fall asleep, and she could escape!

  There were obstacles, however, one being Malcolm himself. He stroked a hand over her hair, then let his fingers graze her bare shoulder as she frantically sought an idea that would get her off the bed and away from his touch.

  "Do not fight me," he murmured as she shrank from him. "You will only hurt yourself."